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Less Than the Moon

I sat wallowing in this day. As hot as it was, I should have melted. But the waxy layer of my skin has long been worn away by the wrinkles of time. So I wallow. Now that’s a word that I love so much I tend to linger on it. Almost drown in it. Which is somewhat ironic. I guess.

But the moon is making faces at me. I love its reflection in the lake. It’s good to know that I can look down on something that is hundreds of miles away. And yes, it’s weird that I can feel superior to what is essentially a floating rock. My standards are a bit…substandard.

What do I know about standards? It was this place…this lake…where I first took her hand. She had a sadness to the way she touched me. It was slow, drawn out…hmph…messy even. Even with all that being true, desire was instant. Infinite. It flowed like the sweat creeping down the small of my back.

I didn’t deserve her. That isn’t some kind of defeatist attitude about my life or my physical attributes. I mean that I treated her poorly up to this point. But being the superhero that she was, she saw through the thick layer of bullshit and touched my hand anyway. Right here. This very spot.

Now, like the moon, I stand alone. I only seem to shine at night and my light is not my own. Beyond that I have no other lunar power. I don’t move the tides. I don’t affect the female mood and it seems that, if anything, the Earth is pushing me away.